The Books of Jacob

by Olga Tokarczuk

  Yente understands from this that behind passports lurks the great cosmos of the state apparatus, with its solar systems, orbits, satellites, with the phenomenon of the comet and the mysterious force of gravity described not long ago by Newton. It is a sensitive and vigilant system, propelled by hundreds or thousands of clerical desks and piles of papers that are propagated through the caress of the sharp ends of geese feathers and passed from hand to hand, from desk to desk; sheets of paper create a slight motion of the air that might be imperceptible compared with autumn winds, yet significant on a world scale. Maybe somewhere far away, in Africa or in Alaska, this motion could whip up a hurricane. The state is the perfect usurper, an uncompromising ruler, an order established once and for all (until it’s cleared away by the next war). Who traced the border through this thorny steppe? Who forbids people from crossing it? In whose name is this suspicious gloved officer operating, and whence comes his suspicion? What is the purpose of papers borne by letter carriers and envoys, by mail carriages for which at every station exhausted horses trade places? Correspondence from Warsaw to Vienna and back takes ten days.

  Jacob’s retinue is made up of the young; the old stayed behind in Warsaw, where they wait, attending to the newly started businesses. The children have been sent to the Piarists; they live on Nowe Miasto and go to church each Sunday. The neophytes, after shaving their beards, blend into the crowd on the muddy streets of the capital. Sometimes you can catch a slight Yiddish accent, but that, too, disappears like snow.

  Jacob, covered in furs, travels in the first carriage with Avacha, whom he sometimes calls Eva now. She is flushed from the cold, and her father keeps covering her again with the fur throw. She holds Rutka, the dog, on her lap, and the dog whimpers dolefully from time to time. Eva could not be convinced to leave her in Warsaw. Opposite sits Jędrzej Yeruhim Dembowski, who has now been made the Lord’s secretary, as Jakubowski and his wife are busy with the Lord’s sons in Warsaw. Next to Dembowski is Mateusz Matuszewski. Traveling on horseback: Kazimierz the cook with his two helpers, Joseph Nakulnicki and Franciszek Bodowski, and also Ignacy Cesirajski, to whom Jacob took a particular liking in Częstochowa as his own helper.

  The women are crowded into the second carriage: Magda Golińska, formerly Jezierzańska, Eva Frank’s friend, older by several years, tall, selfconfident, as tender and devoted to her as a mother would be; in her passport, it says she is a maid. Also traveling as maids are Anusia Pawłowska, daughter of Paweł Pawłowski, once Hayim of Busk, brother of Nahman Jakubowski. Anusia has grown into a lovely girl. Going as washerwomen are Róża Michałowska and Teresa, Łabęcki’s widow. With them are Jan, Janek, Ignac, and Jacob, who have not yet earned last names, so the scrupulous officer writes in the corresponding boxes “Forisch” and “Fuhrmann.” Jacob always gets their first names mixed up, and when he forgets, he calls both of the boys Hershel.

  Already beginning in Ostrava you can see that this is a different country, orderly and clean. The roads are paved, and despite the mud, they can be traveled with surprising ease. Along the highways there are guesthouses, but not the Jewish kind, which they avoided as they went through Poland. Is Moravia not, after all, the land of the true believers? They are in every little town here, although they are different, more reserved; they think what they please, but on the outside, they look like real Christians. Yeruhim Dembowski, whom Jacob now calls “Jędruś,” a funny-sounding Polish diminutive, looking curiously out the window, quotes the words of a Kabbalist according to whom Psalm 14:3—“All have turned away, all have become corrupt; there is no one who does good, not even one”—has the same numerical value as the name of Moravia—Mehrin.

  “We had better watch out for these Krauts,” he warns.

  Eva is disappointed—she very much wanted for her brothers to come with them, but they, childish and shy, tenuous as the little shoots that grow down in the cellar, are afraid of their father, who seems to have more sternness than love for them—it seems that they are a constant irritation to him. It is true that both of them are awkward and insecure. Roch, a freckled redhead, starts to blubber when rebuked, and then his watery greenish eyes fill with tears, and even those tears are the color of pond water. Joseph, quiet and secretive, with avian features and nice black eyes, is always turned inward, focused on picking up sticks, or stones, or snippets of ribbons, empty spools—the incomprehensible activity of the magpie. This brother Eva loves like she would her own child.

  When the officer finally returns their passports, and the transport sets off again, Eva leans out, looks back on the road, and understands that she is leaving Poland once and for all, that she will never again return. To her, Poland will always be the prison of Jasna Góra. She was eight years old when she saw the officer’s chamber for the first time, eternally underheated, cold. Of Poland she will also remember the trips to Warsaw, to the Wołowskis’, where she hurriedly learned to play the piano, her teacher hitting her hands with a wooden ruler. She will also remember the unexpected death of her mother, like a punch in the chest. She knows she will never go back down this road. The high road with its poplars in the uncertain March sun shifts already into memory.

  “Miss Eva must be mourning the officer’s chamber, and missing Roch . . . ,” Matuszewski says ironically, seeing her sad face.

  Everyone in the carriage chuckles, all except her father. From his facial expression there is no way to tell what he is thinking. He puts his arm around her and hides her head under his coat, like he might a puppy. There Eva manages to conceal the tears that pour forth.

  They reach Brünn on the evening of March 23, 1773, and they rent rooms at the Zum blauen Loewen, but there are only two rooms available, so they are cramped. The Forisches and the Fuhrmanns sleep side by side on the ground scattered with hay in the stable. Dembowski keeps the box with their money and documents under his head. But—as they learn the next morning—in order to stay in the city for longer, they will need a special safe passage issued them. This is the reason Jacob and Eva ask to be taken to Prossnitz, to their cousins, the Dobrushkas.

  Of the Dobrushka family in Prossnitz

  Eyes wide, Eva takes in the garments of the local women, gaping at their little dogs and their carriages. She sees the even rows of vineyards—bare at this time of year—and the little gardens tidied up for Easter. Meanwhile, passersby stop at the sight of their carriage, her father’s high hat, and her cloak lined with wolf fur. The bony, powerful hand of her father, who knows no opposition, holds her firmly by the wrist, stretching out her brand-new goatskin glove. The pressure hurts her, but she does not complain. There is little that Eva can’t bear.

  The Dobrushkas’ home is known to all in the city, and everyone is happy to point them in the right direction. It stands on the market square, two stories tall, the first being a shop with a big window. The facade has just been renovated—even now some workers are laying the pavement in front of it. As they cannot get any closer, the carriage stops, and the driver runs up to announce their arrival. A moment later, the curtains are parted on the second floor and the curious eyes of the older and younger residents gaze down upon the new arrivals.

  The Dobrushkas come out to greet them. Eva curtsies before her aunt Sheyndel, who holds her tight, feeling overcome, and Eva breathes in the scent of her dress—light, floral, like powder and vanilla. Solomon, or Zalman, has tears in his eyes. He has aged considerably, now he can barely walk. He wraps his long arms around Jacob and claps him on the back. Yes, yes, Zalman is weak and sick, he’s gotten very skinny. His big belly has shrunk, and deep wrinkles line his face. Twenty-one years ago, at the wedding in Rohatyn, he seemed twice this size. His wife, Sheyndel, on the other hand, has bloomed like an apple tree in spring. No one would guess she had given birth to twelve children—her figure is still good, full, round. The only thing is that her hair is slightly gray now, but it is still luxurious, and she has combed it up, fastening it with black lace clasps that hold her tiny bonnet in place.

  In spite of th
ese displays of affection, Sheyndel is wary as she watches her cousin, about whom she has heard so much that she has no idea what to think. By nature, she does not trust people, or think well of them—often they strike her as stupid and vain. She hugs Avacha somewhat theatrically, too tightly—with women, she always dominates—delighting over her Polish-style braids. Sheyndel is a beautiful woman, well-dressed, confident in herself and the strength of the charm she exerts on all around her. Soon her voice alone will be audible inside the house.

  Not standing on ceremony, she takes her cousin by the hand and leads him into the living room, the splendor of which intimidates the guests, who for thirteen years have not looked upon beautiful, opulent things other than in church. But here there is a polished wooden floor, with Turkish carpets on it, and there are walls painted in soft colors with flowers, and a white instrument with a kind of keyboard, and beside it an elaborately decorated stool on three legs modeled upon the legs of an animal. The drapery in the windows, a sewing box with drawers—their guests arrived as she was embroidering with her daughters, which is why the hoops have been tossed aside onto the armchairs. There are four daughters; now they stand next to one another, smiling, visibly pleased with themselves: the eldest, Blumele, beautiful, not too tall, cheerful, and then Sara, Gitla, and the very young Esther with her curls and red splotches on her pale face, as if someone had painted them. All wearing dresses in patterns of delicate little flowers, but each dress a different color. Eva would like to have a dress like that, and ribbons in her hair; they don’t wear those in Warsaw, and she can already feel herself falling in love with this clothing, these subtle colors and these hair ribbons. From Poland she knows only flashy reds and amaranths, and Turkish blues, but here it’s different: everything is a little bit diluted, as if all the shades in the world had been mixed into milk—there aren’t even words for the ever so slightly grayed pink of the ribbons.

  Aunt Sheyndel introduces her children. Her Yiddish is a little different from what is spoken by the family newly come from Poland. After the girls, the boys come up individually. Here is Moshe, who at the news of a visit from his famous uncle has returned especially from Vienna. At twenty, he is just two years older than Avacha, with a slim, energetic face and uneven teeth; he is already writing scholarly dissertations, both in German and in Hebrew. He is interested in poetry and literature as well as new philosophical trends. He is just a little bit too bold, too talkative, too sure of himself, like his mother. There are some people with whom you have a little problem from the start because you feel too attracted to them—you like them without any justification, even as you feel certain that it is all a simulacrum, a game. That is how Moshe is. When he looks at her, Eva averts her eyes and turns crimson, which makes her even more ashamed. On being introduced to him, she curtseys clumsily and does not want to give him her hand, and then Sheyndel, who sees everything, gives everyone to understand—by the significant glance she casts her husband’s way—that this girl has simply not been brought up to have manners. Eva is unable to remember the names of the next two Dobrushka brothers.

  Sheyndel Hirsh was born in Wrocław, but her family comes from Rzeszów, like Jacob’s family—Jacob’s mother and Sheyndel’s father were sister and brother. Now she is thirty-seven years old, but her face still looks fresh and young. Her large dark eyes resemble wells—you never know what you’ll find at the bottom. Her gaze is penetrating, suspicious, attentive, hard to shake. Eva looks away and thinks how different Aunt Sheyndel is from her own mother. Her mother was trusting and straightforward, which meant that she often appeared helpless and defenseless. That is how Eva remembers her anyway, as if all her strength would simply vanish, and every morning she would have to gather it back up like so many berries, patiently, slowly. This woman has more than enough strength; talking with Eva’s cousin, she simultaneously sets the table. A maid rushes in with a basket of rolls that are still warm, straight from the bakery. And there is honey and lumps of dark sugar, which they drop into their coffee with special little tongs.

  The first conversations are had for the purpose of everyone making a thorough examination of everyone else. The Dobrushka children, who have hurried down from all over the house, curious and amused, look at Eva Frank, their unknown cousin, and their strange uncle with the coarse, dark face. Eva is wearing a dress bought back in Warsaw, in a “travel” color, a tobacco-like shade, that does not suit her at all. The upper of one of her boots has cracked, and she tries to cover it with the toe of the other one. Her full face never loses its flush. From under her hat—and to think that in Warsaw it struck her as chic—strands of her hair sneak out.

  From the outset, Jacob’s manner has been loud and intimate, as though the moment he left the carriage, a change occurred within him, and placed over his tired and devastated face a jovial mask. His depression and exhaustion are washed away by sips of goose broth, and he is warmed by Sheyndel’s infectious laughter, relaxed by the cherry liqueur. In the end, there is that exotic name, Częstochowa, and Jacob starts to tell them stories, as he does—gesticulating, making wild faces. He curses in Polish, curses in Yiddish, the children don’t know how to react, but a glance at their mother soothes them—Sheyndel closes her eyes briefly, as if to say: To him all is permitted.

  They sit in the living room at a small round table and drink coffee out of delicate cups. Eva does not listen to her father’s stories.

  When she reaches for the sugar (with coffee they’re given snow-white sugar in big crystals), she sees on the sugar bowl a picture of a port city, with its characteristic cranes for unloading goods. And the cup—its insides are white and slick, and its edge is decorated with a delicate gold band. Bringing it to her lips, Eva can almost taste that band—its flavor is almost vanilla.

  The clock ticks—this new sound breaks up time into little parts, and everything seems calibrated, in a grid. Clean, orderly, and perfectly sensible.

  After lunch, her father remains with Uncle Zalman and Aunt Sheyndel, while Eva is sent to the girls’ room, where the youngest, Gitla and Esther, show her their diaries, in which visitors are supposed to write inscriptions. Eva is to do the same. She is terrified.

  “Can it be in Polish?” she asks.

  She looks through one diary and sees that all the entries are in German, of which her knowledge is limited. In the end, Magda Golińska writes on her behalf, in a fine hand and in Polish. To Eva remains the task of illustration: a rose with its thorns, like they used to make together in Częstochowa. These are the only flowers she knows how to draw.

  In the living room, the adults are conversing loudly, and the girls can hear their bursts of laughter and cries of surprise. Then the voices lower to a whisper. The servants bring in coffee and fruit. Somewhere from deep inside the house comes the smell of fried meat. Jędrzej Dembowski walks around the house, peering in all the rooms. He looks into the girls’ room, and with him comes the smell of tobacco, bitter and strong.

  “So that’s where the young ladies have hidden away . . . ,” he says, and with these words, his smoky silhouette is gone.

  Eva, who is sitting in a deep armchair and playing with the tassels of the curtain, can just make out the voice of her father from the living room, who is telling the story in an animated way of how he was released by the Russians. She hears him embellishing these events, perhaps even lying about them. In his version, it all sounds very dramatic, and he comes off as a hero—an attack, shots, the old soldiers dying, blood, monks covered in debris. In reality, it was all much less theatrical. The garrison surrendered. White flags were hung on the walls. Arms were laid down in great piles. It was raining, and the heaps of pistols, sabers, and muskets looked like piles of brushwood. The confederates were placed in four-file columns and led out. The Russians then turned to systematic plundering.

  Wołowski and Jakubowski talked with General Bibikov in Jacob’s name. After a brief deliberation with some officer, he had a proclamation written for Jacob saying he was now free.

 
As they all traveled to Warsaw in their rented carriage, they were stopped several times by different patrols of surviving confederates and Russians. Each would read the proclamation and suspiciously examine the pretty girl squeezed between the strange men. Once, they were stopped by a ragged band of highwaymen, but Jan Wołowski fired some shots into the air and they ran off. Around Kalwaria Zebrzydowska, they turned off the road and, having amply paid the nuns in the monastery, deposited Eva with them, not wanting to take any risks with her traveling through that suddenly savage land. She was to wait there for her father to return. Taking his leave, he kissed her on the lips and told her she was the most important thing he had.

  Now her father is recounting their efforts to obtain passports, and Eva can hear the voice of her aunt Sheyndel, screeching in disbelief:

  “You wanted to go to Turkey?”

  Eva can’t make out her father’s reply. And then her aunt again:

  “But Turkey is now an enemy of Poland, and of Austria, and of Russia. There is going to be a war.”

  Eva falls asleep in her armchair.

  Of new life in Brünn and the ticking of clocks

  Several days later, they rent a house on the outskirts of Brünn, from Ignacy Pietsch, a councillor. Jacob Frank has to show him their passports and file a statement with the authorities in which he avows that he comes from Smyrna, is traveling from Poland, and that, being now tired of professional activity, he wishes to settle permanently with his daughter in Brünn. And that he has the necessary means to do so, as a result of his aforementioned professional activity.